Fighting evil!

Wendy is nnnnot enthused about this whole 'staying at Milliways overnight' thing.

Nevertheless, she dutifully takes the key the Bar gives her, and dutifully climbs up the stairs to get to where the rooms are.

"... Holy bed and breakfast, Batman," she says, with the faint beginnings of a grin.

While it's not a totally amazing loft, the room she walks into looks surprisingly similar to one. Lots of space, a window onto the lake, and partial lofting provided by a ladder that leads up to (she sees, when she cranes her neck and rises on her toes) a little nook for a bed and an end table.

Wendy may not like that she has to stay here.

But she's gotta admit, this room is totally cool.

Simionics Animal Research Laboratories
11:21 P.M.

Wendy and the Middleman park a short distance from Simionics, leaving Spanky the wannabe gorilla crime boss to ponder his crimes in the back seat. They sneak onto the grounds, climbing a fence, ducking one security guard and disabling the other with a solid Sensei Ping-learned karate chop from the Middleman. The lab itself is different at night, unsettling in the way that many buildings are after dark. The occasional window remains lit, thanks either to a late worker or a thoughtless one, but Wendy can't help but think that the darkened ones maybe hard to see into, but they're easy to see out from.

Her boss disables a camera or two and they reach the wall, but he surprises her by looking for a ladder instead of a door.

"We're going to the roof?"

"The lab had a skylight," he explains. "You didn't notice?"

She had, but at the time, she hadn't been cataloging possible points of break and entry. From the roof he finds their spot, a wide plane of gently sloping glass, through which she can see several stories of darkness lit only by the occasional blinking diode of a processing computer, and the moon. She's never minded heights before, but as he breaks open a hatch and passes her a harness, she has to take a moment to catch her breath.

Inside it's catwalks and machinery, the whole place smelling of ape and a chemical lemon scent that is desperately trying to fight the former. The main computer unit is a tower that reaches nearly to the ceiling,a veritable hive of processing power designed to control the thoughts and instincts of dozens of primates. Their descent brings them close to its slick sides.

Wendy looks down for a moment, then regrets it. "Is there a reason we're repelling down to the computer?"

It's a painfully long drive to the

Andolini Social Club
The city's most notorious den of wiseguys.
12:15 P.M.

during which the Middleman refuses to let Wendy change the cassette.

When he finally stops the Middlemobile, it's a relief, even if the setting isn't the nicest.

"What is this place?"

The door to the bar eventually re-opens to the

Corridor to the illegal sublet Wendy shares
with another young, photogenic artist

which is something of a relief. Free first drinks aside, all Wendy wants now is something nice and mundane. Like a nap. Or a ham sandwich. Or a punching bag dressed in an Eisenhower jacket.

"Yo, Wendy Watson."

"Hey Noser."

"I'm feelin' kinda hungry."

"You mean hungry like the wolf?"

"Nope."

"Hungry heart?"

"Nope."

"Hungry eyes?"

"Nope."

Well then there's clearly only one remaining option: "Hungry hippos."

Noser sighs with contentment. "You're the only one who gets me."

Inside Lacey is still preparing for her protest, which leads the whole apartment to smell like a mixture of paint fumes and corn syrup. It is a scent which, Wendy holds on hope, is irresistible to men. Almost on cue Lacey alerts Wendy to the presence of her boyfriend upstairs.

Well. He's not a ham sandwich. But he'll do.

"God am I glad to see you," she offers by way of greeting. "If my day sucked any harder I'd be inside out."

Ben looks shifty, furtive, but Wendy doesn't want to see that – she wants a loving, happy boyfriend, damn it. Kissing him is like kissing a popsicle, and not the fun kind they make for bachelorette parties either. In response to her arms draped around his neck he gives her a pat on the back, which is when she gives up.

"Okay. This is usually the part where you kiss me back." Slipping her arms around his waist lets her feel his hand tucked behind his back, holding – "A camera? We making a movie?"

"Uh. I guess you could say that."

"Kinky. Should I bust out the feather boa and the accordion?"

"It's uh. Not. Like that."

Her responding silence reads: okay?

"See my friend Eddie came along –"

"Whoa. Eddie's kinky." Eddie emerges bashfully from the closet. He's holding a boom mike. It's hard to miss. "Hi, Eddie."

"Eddie's taking Professor Howard's cinema verité class with me..." Ben begins by way of explanation.

"The class you're flunking?"

"Yeah. The professor says it's 'cause I don't have any real pain in my life."

"I could punch you?" She suggests it as a joke but the more he talks, the more that urge builds.

"It's Uh. Not that. Kinky." He pulls back, starting up the camcorder. "Fire it up, Eddie."

Wendy stares at them both, dubious as Eddie lifts the boom over her head. So caught up is she in doubting his ability to not accidentally slip and give her a concussion (which at this point, she might be grateful for) that she almost misses Ben saying: "– just think that you and I should. You know. Be. Just friends."

"You're... breaking up with me for a class project?"

He now manages to speak smoothly, without the halting she had always found endearing but now can't seem to recall why. "And how does that make you feel?"

"We – we've been dating for a year." She rounds on him, claps her hand over the lens. "You said the l-word that one time!"

"I was drunk!" At her look he adds, "See, that, that hurts? Tell the camera."

Things are turning inside out quite nicely now.

"This is painful for me too, you know! I am the victim here. My dad is a lawyer – we have money, I've never worked for anything – no pain in my life! The professor stood me up in front of the class and he said that! You have any idea how that stings, to know that you have no hurt on the inside?"

Stupid Ben with his stupid floppy hair and his stupid black clothes and his stupid camcorder, still trained on her. "So you want to know what it's like to have pain in your life."

Beat.

"Fair enough."

He's not wearing an Eisenhower jacket. But he still makes a damn good punching bag.

Amalgamated Temporary Employment Inc.
10:25 A.M.

It's the day after The Incident and Wendy is wearing her look-how-corporate-and-professional-I-can-be outfit, pantyhose and all, the most genuine smile she can manage plastered across her face. Her one job is indefinitely on hold – a headline-making 'gas explosion' can do that to a research lab – but fingers crossed there will be someone else out there looking for an art school grad with an eye for detail and the capability to type seventy-five words per minute.

Hopefully.

Wendy is contemplating how much she truly hates pantyhose when words from the stern-looking manager across the desk snap her back to reality.

"...And the police say the explosion by a lighter." This woman can say anything and make it sound about as thrilling as a root canal. "A polished silver Zippo lighter with a DC-3 airplane engraving."

"My dad's lucky lighter?" Wendy asks. Her frozen smile melts somewhat.

For someone so bored, the woman is sharp. "So you know something about it."

"Oh – you don't think that --" Wendy stutters to a stop. The manager's expression shows that clearly, she does think that. "Oh, come on! I was just fidgeting with that lighter. It's like an OCD thing! Only... different."

This is going on her file, isn't it.

Wendy tries a different tactic. "Okay. Look. I have three credit cards that are about to pop at the seams and my mother's on me twenty-four seven to quit painting, move back to Orlando, meet a good man, eat fried foods, swell up like a tick and start squeezing out calves like Elsie mainlining fertility drugs. Do we understand each other?"

The response comes in a mononous drone, as the manager searches through her desk drawer. "Until we can be certain that one of our temps didn't burn down her last place of employment while playing with fire, there's nothing I can do." She pulls out a cigarette.

"Okay, A: When my father’s DC-3 tragically crashed under as-of-yet unexplained and mysterious circumstances, I swore that I would never lose the only memento he left behind. Which brings me straight to B: I did not cause that explosion."

For a moment the manager doesn't respond, her cigarette held out towards Wendy. When neither of them moves, she cocks and eyebrow. "Can't find your lighter?"

Wendy snaps. "Okay, you want the truth? Those idiots were working on some whacked-out genetic experiment that went completely bonkers and this monster made out of body parts attacked me and then this Middleman guy showed up and told me he’d kill me."

The door blows open, slamming back against the wall, and in the glare of sudden light Wendy sees the broad-shouldered shape of the strange man from the lab. He gives a quick pitying shake of his head as he lowers his ridiculously oversized blaster weapon directly at her head.

"Sorry, ma’am. I warned you."

And the world goes white.

-- No, wait. Bad plan.

Wendy doesn't snap.

Instead she sighs, offering a polite smile despite the manager's cold stare. "I get it. Thank you."

She'll have to try somewhere else instead.

A.N.D. Laboratories. Present Day.
12:15 P.M.

It's a thoroughly modern building, the kind built with gently curved walls and arches and "natural stone", because studies have shown these sorts of architectural features serve to give the impression of solidity and foreward-thinking. Just like the windows: so many windows, both inside and out, saying to everyone "look how honest and transparent we are!" even while the paperwork suggests otherwise.

Wendy Watson filed most of that paperwork. If only she'd gone into science instead of art, studied chemical engineering instead of colour theory, she might have realized its consequences earlier. But she didn't.

"Jeez, Mom, what do you mean, 'What am I doing in a science lab?' Well I happen to be working with the top scientific minds in the country, Mom -- oh, hold on."

The truth is, Wendy is not working so much with these scientists as near them; a heavy glass partition helps keep her reception area from being overwhelmed by the sounds (and just as often, smells) of the lab area beyond. Though she doesn't know it yet, this fact will soon save her life.

She clicks onto the next line. "Thank you for calling A.N.D. Laboratories, Rescrambling Your D.N.A., how may I direct your call?" Click: transferred.

Back to line one: "This is a really important job, Mom! ... Well, as a matter of fact, yes! Lots of art school grads get science jobs! Hold on, hold on..."

As she works the phone she toys with a lighter. It's a worn silver zippo, featuring an engraving of an airplane. Her motions have the feeling of deep muscle memory to them: she rubs her thumb over the lighter's surface, flicking the top open and shut again. "Thank you for calling A.N.D. Laboratories, Rescrambling Your D.N.A., how may I direct your call?" She looks at the lighter without seeing it.

Click, transferred, back to line one: "Yes, mother, I am still dating 'that guy'. And his name is Ben. No, he is not a homosexual. He's in... film school."

Wendy is used to this conversation. She has it at least once a day, covering what Wendy likes to call the 'Big Three': Life, Work, Men. Each subject is touched on just long enough for her mother to drive home the existential guilt that can only come from Not Living Up To Your Parents' Expectations.

Wendy sighs. "Hang on, mom --" Click. ""Thank you for calling A.N.D. Laboratories, how may I connect your --"

THUD.

...Thud? she thinks.

Crinkle.

Crinkle?

The glass behind Wendy shatters and before she knows what she's doing she's up and over the desk, scrambling wildly, the lighter flying from her fingers. Her receptionist's outfit, while adorable, is not exactly designed for acrobatics and she slips on the tile, landing hard on her back. This gives her a great view of the... thing that has broken out of the lab.

It's huge, head scraping the ceiling, long tail knocking paperwork off her now-vacated desk. It's making noises like a trash compactor if a trash compactor could gargle. It's covered in eyes, and tentacles, and hands, and though the thought doesn't occur to Wendy until the monster reaches a – clawing? beckoning? – paw towards her, it seems very very distantly human.

"Contamination alert," states a soothing female voice over the speaker system. No kidding.

In her headset, the caller is still asking something about shipping fees for international bulk orders. Wendy barks, "Please hold!" and runs for her life. No good: a tentacle lashes out about her middle and drags her to the ground, drawing her back towards the monster.

Later on it will occur to Wendy that that should have been it: that should have been the moment in which her life flashed before her eyes. She should have thought back on the character-building years of her childhood; the inner turmoil and ultimately strength she gained from the loss of her father; how despite the harsh judgments, her mother did, in fact, love her dearly. She should have reflected on her bond with Ben and realized how weak it was when compared to, say, her relationship with her best friend and roommate Lacey. She should have, at the very least, taken some measure of solace in the fact that after her death, some of her paintings might actually sell.

But none of this came to Wendy. The only thing that flashed before her eyes was the letter opener.

In the long run, that was probably for the best.

She drives the blade into the tentacle again and again, causing the creature to thrash and scream out like someone had thrown gravel into that same trash compactor. A moment later there's a high-pitched whine and the monstrous limb explodes, sending Wendy tumbling to the ground.

For one dazed second she is stunned but impressed that she could have done such damage with a letter opener, but then she sees the shoes. The shoes on the feet of the man. The man in the uniform. The man in the uniform with the huge, smoking gun.

Um.